Little Wolf
by Kiira13
Summary: A series of stories from Fenris' life, from being a slave to when he first started running. I'll keep posting chapters as I finish more, length will vary. Suggestions are most welcome! Rated T for violence and strong themes.
1. Chapter 1

**1.**

The process would be intense. He knew this. The magister had decided to oversee the procedure personally. He conversed with the other mages present, using complicated terminology and long, convoluted sentences that somehow described the work that was about to commence. The elf was told that he would be the first to receive such a gift. They were unsure of precisely what the effects would be, but that he would be elevated high above any other slave in Tevinter. And his family would be free. They had guaranteed it. The theatre was bare apart from the table which held the various magical instruments and vials of lyrium. He shivered. The magister finally turned away from his colleagues and approached the table. He inspected the equipment with a careful eye before clapping his hands together.

"Excellent, we shall begin."

Two slaves came forward to lock the elf's wrists into the manacles that hung from the ceiling. He needed to remain standing throughout, the designs that had been traced over his skin twisted over his whole body; forehead to feet. The magister took his chin in his hand and raised his head to look into his frightened eyes.

"Rejoice, my child. Today is an auspicious day."

He returned to the far side of the theatre and seated himself on his regal throne, ready to observe. A slave filled a glass with wine and placed it as his side. He took a careful sip before lacing his fingers together and nodding to the assembled mages.

"Begin."

The first cut burned like fire. The leading mage sliced open his skin along the curved lines of the traced design. The second mage followed the path of the knife with a steady stream of lyrium dust, packing it into his flesh. The third stitched his skin back together, sealing the dust in place so that it could bury itself deep into his muscles, and further still. Into his blood. He screamed. His cries echoed off the stone floor, against the stone walls, back again. A chorus of pain. He couldn't even fight against it, he was immobilised with agony. He hung limply from the manacles, the cold metal cutting into his wrists as they supported his entire weight. He felt the icy bite of the knife cutting him open, but the burning of the lyrium was worse still. It seared his flesh and then tunnelled deeper, worming its way inside like a parasitic infection. After the first hour, his voice gave out. The mages continued their work in the silence, working their way along each trembling limb. From their starting point on his upper back, they travelled down, spiralling around his legs, then back up. Over his chest, along each arm, fingertip to fingertip, paying special attention to his palms. Finally, near the end of the fourth hour, they completed the spiky curves that climbed his throat and finished at his lower lip.

The magister put up his hand, and the mages paused. He approached the elf. His body was soaked in sweat and blood, but the markings shone through. The lyrium had adhered remarkably well to his flesh, following the lines of the design without deviating or with any changes in colour or concentration. The dust had turned an iridescent white when sealed under the skin, an unexpected feature, but not unpleasant. It did enhance the beauty of the markings he had designed. The curves and spikes were placed to follow the natural flow of energy through the body, emphasising points of power, thickest when following the paths of major arteries. Blood and lyrium, together at last. Another unexpected side effect, his hair had been bleached white. How charming; it matched the tone of the markings to create a not unappealing overall picture. The elf was hanging limply from the manacles. The magister lifted his face to see that his eyes were closed. He cast a simple spell, waving a hand over his pale face. Still alive, no obvious damage. He brushed the sweat-soaked hair away from the forehead and snapped his fingers at the attendant mages.

The first mage cut through the skin of his forehead to reveal the three small circles of flesh that were to complete the design. Blood dripped down the elf's unconscious face. The second mage filled each circle with lyrium. The magister healed each mark himself. As the last cut sealed closed, the elf's eyes flew open. He thrashed against the bindings, muscles jerking and flailing. He screamed. A piercing, burning scream. The magister and his mages stepped back as though pushed away by the force of his cry. As he screamed, the markings began to glow. First softly, but growing ever brighter, filling the entire room with blinding blue light. Magical energy burst from the boy, throwing the mages through the air and reducing the instrument table to a pile of splinters against the far wall. The magister remained standing, holding a barrier around himself as his eyes shone with satisfaction. Eventually the barrage of magic subsided, the cloud of blue energy receding like wisps of smoke. The elf's outline blurred for a moment as the energy enveloped him, the markings flaring even brighter before the blue glow dissipated and the magic died away. He was on his feet, but panting heavily, eyes wild.

The magister cautiously released his barrier and the mages got to their feet one by one, muttering and casting fearful looks at the elf. The magister approached, and the elf locked eyes with him. His eyes held nothing but fear and pain, like a wild beast.

"What do you feel?"

He tried to swallow, his mouth dry and tasting of blood and salt.

"Who… Who are you?"

The magister blinked in surprise. The elf looked around the room wildly.

"Where am I?"

"What do you remember?"

The elf returned his eyes to the magister.

"I remember… Pain. Burning."

Every muscle in his body trembled. He closed his eyes tightly before meeting the satisfied gaze of the magister.

"Who are you?"

"I am Magister Danarius of the Tevinter Imperium, but you may call me Master."

"Master…"

"And do you know who you are, child?"

"I am… I don't… I don't know."

The elf's eyes were full of fear.

"Who am I?"

The magister placed a hand on his blood-streaked face. Admiring the angled cheekbones and pointed ears, he mused for a moment.

"I think I shall call you Fenris, my little wolf."

The elf closed his eyes.

"Thank you, Master."


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

"My dear Fenris, I bore of this peasant, please kill him for me."

The servant stumbled back, turning to flee but being caught by two attendant guards and held in place by his arms. Fenris reached for the hilt of his sword, but Danarius put up a hand.

"No swords, I detest having bloodstains on the carpet."

"Yes, Master."

The servant was gabbling a mixture of apologies and pleads for mercy, and his voice grew ever louder and more desperate as Fenris approached, until he was screaming incoherently. All of Minrathous knew what would happen if you were to earn Danarius' ire when in the presence of his lyrium-marked slave. The various feasts and parties of the Magisters had been held entranced in the months that followed his successful procedure as he demonstrated the abilities of his new bodyguard. The magister delighted in showing off the markings that adorned his skin, and his contemporaries seemed never to tire of fetching unneeded slaves for the elf to dispatch with brutal efficiency. They adored seeing the markings glow blue before his hands blurred and became ghostly as they disappeared into his victim's chest. Sometimes they asked him to pull the heart fully from the chest, spraying gouts of blood into the air. Other times he was ordered to simply crush it before withdrawing his hand and having it rematerialize coated with blood. Less of a spectacle, but easier to clean.

Fenris felt the lines of his markings burn as they lit up and his hand disappeared inside the servant's chest. His heart was racing as he took hold of it, feeling the frantic beating against his palm. He closed his eyes as the servant slumped down onto the floor. He could feel the blood dripping down his arm as the blue glow died away, and caught the falling drops with his other hand before they could hit the carpet. The guards dragged the body out of the sitting room and another slave appeared at Fenris' side to wipe the gore off his arms.

"How very tedious."

The magister took another drink of wine.

"Fenris, go and fetch another bottle of this vintage, and do ensure that no other servants have access to the wine cellar. If I have one more broken bottle, I shall be most displeased."


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

"Get up, slave."

Fenris was roused from his sleep by the familiar command. He lifted himself from his thin bedding and rubbed at his tired eyes, blinking as the familiar barrels and wine racks came into view, illuminated by warm candle light. He was permitted to sleep on the cellar floor when Danarius attended his night-long seminars and council meetings. Otherwise he spent his nights beside the magister's bedroom door, protecting him from intruders. He hadn't been asleep long, and he was exhausted. The last three nights had been spent standing at attention beside his master during the annual gala of the magisters. They took stimulants and took no rest for the entire duration, a full four days. Fenris was not given any stimulants, and the secret conference that took place the day after the closing ceremony was his first opportunity for sleep. A sleep which was swiftly disturbed by the scathing voice of the magister's assistant.

"I said, up!"

She snapped her fingers and a brief jolt of electricity shot through him, forcing him to clench his jaw shut to prevent a groan of pain.

"Mistress Hadriana, the Master did permit me a night's rest."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Are you disobeying a direct order, slave?"

"No, Mistress."

"I thought not. Get up and follow me."

Fenris struggled to his feet and followed Hadriana through the moonlit mansion. The few slaves and servants they passed scurried out of the way and dropped into deep curtsies and bows. They averted their gaze from both mage and slave, they knew what was about to happen. For all they envied Fenris for his position of power, none of them would volunteer to take his place. Hadriana's chambers were on the second floor, far more humble than Danarius' suites and laboratories, but sufficient for her own experiments and assorted diversions. They entered her small sitting room, which she had ordered furnished in the magister's style, creating a miniature version of the decadence seen downstairs. A place of power for her very own. She threw herself into her throne-like armchair and snapped her fingers.

"Clothes off, you know the procedure."

With weary resignation, Fenris pulled off his shirt and trousers before kneeling on the floor on front of her chair. Her eyes looked over his body hungrily. She took advantage of Danarius' every absence to flaunt the power she had over him. She resented his presence at the magister's side. The reliance placed upon him. She hated the way he fawned over the slave. She hated the prestige his markings gave him, and she hated how Danarius' eyes passed right over her own achievements to revel in the freak outcome of his magical experimentation. He would never let her order Fenris around the way she did the other slaves while in his presence. But when he was away, she would let him feel just how insignificant he was. By any means necessary.

"So, slave. I was monitoring your behaviour during the gala, and I was most disappointed."

Fenris kept his eyes on the tiled floor. He knew better than to respond. The last time he had protested, she had him writhing on the floor for over an hour before relenting. Danarius had spotted one of the burns on his shoulder and chastised her harshly. Hadriana punished him again by stopping his meals for almost a week.

"Number one, you adjusted your collar no fewer than six times during the festivities."

During magisterial events, Danarius often outfitted Fenris with a heavy iron collar and led him around by a chain link leash. The metal weighed heavily on his shoulders, and the intoxicated magisters found no end of amusement in tugging at the leash to pull him off balance. He was meant to resemble the qunari Saarebas; mages kept collared and leashed to suppress their power and keep them under control. Danarius took special pleasure in mocking the custom, particularly when they visited Seheron. There was a particularly sharp edge along the left side of the collar that cut through the skin on his shoulder when it slipped out of place. He was forced to adjust it several times when his master or the other magisters pulled at his leash without warning.

"Anything to say for yourself?"

He stayed silent. She frowned, disappointed. The bolt of electricity struck faster than he had anticipated, and he gasped as the energy jolted through him, falling forward slightly as he braced himself against the floor with a hand. Smirking, the mage continued.

"Number two. You yawned not once, but three times. Inexcusable."

This time he was prepared, merely clenching his fists and riding out the waves of pain in silence. He could smell the scent of singed hair, the electricity burned the tips of his hair, sending wisps of smoke into the air. Hadriana continued through the list of indiscretions. Made Danarius wait for more than a minute before refilling his glass of wine. Allowed hair to fall into his eyes. Didn't bow deeply enough when the Archon entered. Looked into the eyes of another slave. On and on it went. Each bolt of energy sensitised his markings, but he kept the lyrium under control. If he harmed her, Danarius would punish him far worse than this. His last major infraction had warranted such a harsh punishment that he had to be sent to the healers to recover. The power of his markings was not under his control, only his master could grant permission for their use.

Eventually Hadriana exhausted her list of petty grievances, and looked him over. Although he hadn't cried out, he was coated in sweat, and his muscles were trembling and twitching. Fenris could feel blood on his palms where his nails had pierced the skin.

"Get up."

He rose slowly, testing the strength of each leg before trusting them with his weight lest he buckle and fall. He felt her hand seize his chin as she forced his face up to meet her gaze. Her manicured nails were sharp against his skin, and the cloying smell of her perfume washed over him.

"What do we say?"

"I apologise, Mistress. I am worthless, and only your vigilance keeps me worthy of being by my Master's side."

"Exactly right. I only hurt you so that Danarius can have the best. He deserves nothing less. Now get out of my sight, slave."

She released him and marched away to her boudoir, slamming the door behind her with another snap of her fingers. Fenris exhaled shakily and got dressed before making his way back through the mansion to the cellar. He lowered himself onto his sleeping mat and hugged himself tightly until the trembling subsided enough for him to drift into an uneasy sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

"Come along, pet."

The summer sun was at its peak, blazing down on Fenris as he escorted his master through the city of Seheron. The Imperial army had unofficially reconquered the island during the spring, and the brief absence of Qunari soldiers was excuse enough for Danarius to organise a visit and impress the Archon with his dedication to the island. Fenris would have enjoyed the visits more if the magister didn't insist upon fitting him with his collar the moment they reached the shores.

"Let them all see. Each blasted spy. They're not the only ones who can leash their pets."

His master had informed him that Seheron was his homeland, and he looked around the cities and beaches with some interest whenever the magister was preoccupied. Of his past, he only knew the precious little that Danarius had seen fit to tell him. That he had grown up on the tropical island would explain his ease in the humidity and the heat, while Danarius only moved from place to place surrounded by sheaths of magic that kept the air around him cool and dry. Being seen sweating would not befit one of his rank. His guardsmen and slaves were not afforded the same luxury, and suffered under the relentless sun. Fenris had watched many of the guards collapse in the heat of their armour, and was ordered to kill one that had fallen while his master was presiding over a meeting in the capital. Another rare pleasure of the island visits was that he was permitted to be armed at all times.

The ritual that had given him his markings had stripped his mind of almost all memory, but his body remembered far more. When testing his abilities, Danarius had offered him a selection of weapons and asked if he felt any inclination towards one or another. Fenris had scanned the rows of sharp knives, swords, axes, bows, maces, flails, and found his eyes drawn to one of the greatswords that rested on the furthest weapon rack. He didn't see the magister's satisfied smile as his picked it out, but he felt the warmth in his arms as they accepted the familiar weight. He was lead out to a sparring field and immediately reduced a dozen practice dummies to piles of sackcloth and straw. His body moved fluidly and seemingly independently as he swung the sword through smooth patterns and forms that he could not remember being taught. That detail felt insignificant compared to the joy of wielding the weapon. His muscles burned as he grew more confident, and he could feel himself smiling as the last tatters of the dummy floated to the ground. The sound of steel against steel made him turn. His master had summoned a trio of guardsmen that began to advance towards him with weapons drawn. They attacked, and he defended himself instinctively, swinging the sword up to absorb the impact of their strikes before retreating, calling to his master for help. The magister only watched on in silence as Fenris guarded against their attacks, using the full length of the sword to repel the strikes of the three guardsmen. Eventually he was forced back so far that he found himself with his back to the high stone wall of the sparring ground. With nowhere else to run, he turned to attack. Succumbing to pure instinct, he raced towards the guards with furious speed, leaping into the air before slamming the sword down against an upraised shield, cleaving it in two. He spun like a dancer, dodging and striking like a snake. One guardsman slipped beneath his guard and managed to land a shallow cut along his ribs. He cried out and put a hand to the wound to stop the bleeding. Another of the guards took the advantage and ran forward with a yell. Fenris felt his head turn towards the noise, and as he braced himself, he felt his markings burn. There was a flash of blue, and the advancing guard was on the ground. Fenris drew himself up and turned to the remaining attackers. His skin burned like fire along the curves of his marks, filling his limbs with renewed energy. The guards faltered, eyes fearful. His sword flashed through the air and buried itself into the stomach of the closest man. The second dropped his sword and turned to run, but Fenris materialised in his path like a blue ghost, reaching an insubstantial hand into his body to hold him in place with a grip on his spine. At that point, his master pulled him away with a rope of magic.

"That's more than enough, my little wolf."

From that day, Fenris held the position of Danarius' bodyguard. Most days, the magister informed him that his appearance was enough to intimidate any attackers. But on Seheron, or during meetings with rival magisters, he was permitted to have his sword slung across his back. Although it was hardly ever needed, its weight was familiar and comforting. A memory of the past he had lost. The magister had arranged additional training for him, augmenting his talents with techniques for combat against qunari and rebel mages. Although helpful, Fenris found that the best techniques were those he learned through experience, and did not follow the traditional forms that he had been shown. Especially since none accounted for his markings.

As the qunari had only been recently repelled from the city, Danarius had outfitted Fenris in the armour that had been made especially for him. It was designed to accommodate his more fluid combat style, not inhibiting any movements, but also to show off the white curves of the lyrium marks. His feet and palms were left bare, and the chest plate was cut low to allow for his collar. A secure harness crossed his chest that strapped his sword securely against his back. Ready to fight at a moment's notice. Ready to defend.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. A small hand had pulled the shutters of a window closed. He listened carefully, and realised that the usual sounds of the city were absent. No children shouted, and no merchants were calling out the details of their wares.

"Master!"

The first arrow hit a guardsman, who dropped silently to the ground. Danarius flung his hands up to conjure a glowing barrier, shielding himself from the oncoming volley. Fenris ducked low to the ground, tucking his head under an upraised arm. One arrow bounced off his bracer, and he winced at the impact. The magister spun his staff in a circle and hurled a bolt of fire towards the rooftop where the arrows originated. Screams of burning men filled the air, and the barrage stopped.

"To the docks!"

Fenris leapt to his feet and raced through the city ahead of his master. Qunari soldiers streamed onto the streets, pouring out of the houses in which they had concealed themselves. Fenris stumbled to a stop as a knot of horned warriors blocked the alley through which he ran. He glanced back at his master, who waved a hand, unlocking the collar and allowing it to fall to the ground. Free from the weight, Fenris rolled his shoulders before drawing his sword smoothly and cutting through the ambushers. Spraying blood through the air, he carved a path for his master through the attackers, leading him ever onwards towards the distant scent of the ocean. He could hear screams and yells echoing through the streets, but focused only on getting the magister to safety. Eventually the blue water came into sight, and he took his master's arm with his free hand to pull him towards the quayside.

Danarius caught sight of a fellow magister standing by a boat, watching over a stream of Tevinter nobility as they boarded. Fenris swept him to the jetty, where he was greeted by the waiting mage.

"Ben-Hassrath infiltrated the city. The blasted natives kept them hidden."

Danarius cursed in Tevene.

"I trust there is room for me? I must return to Minrathous and inform the Archon."

"But of course. However…"

He ran his eyes over Fenris' bloodstained armour.

"There will not be room for any slaves."

Fenris blinked in disbelief.

"This slave is worth more than you and your entire estate, Arctus. He comes with me."

The mage folded his arms.

"I'm afraid that will be impossible."

They argued back and forth, voices growing steadily louder, until a hail of arrows flew through the air and cut through the guards that were protecting the docks. Several of the noblewomen on the ship screamed.

"Either leave the slave or stay behind, Danarius. We're casting off."

A nimbus of electricity sparked around the magister as he glared furiously. He turned to Fenris.

"If you let yourself be harmed, I will be most displeased."

Then he turned on his heel and boarded the ship. As it moved away from the jetty, Fenris stared, still in shock. Danarius' face appeared over the side, gazing with impotent fury at the receding figure of his prized possession. The expression was so outrageous, Fenris found himself laughing. The waves of hysteria washed over him until he was doubled over, clutching at his stomach. His sword fell with a thud onto the wooden boards of the quay, and he soon followed it. Sitting next to the ocean, alone. Truly alone.

Yells and war cries interrupted his blank staring. The qunari were advancing towards the docks, cutting off the streets and establishing control over the city. He leapt to his feet and ducked through the Tevinter soldiers that had been left behind to guard their masters' escape. Several of them called after him, ordering him to stay and defend the docks. He ran past them, ignoring their commands. His master had ordered him not to be harmed, and he knew enough of qunari tactics to realise that staying at the main port was suicide. He ran through the city, aiming for the outskirts. He tried to stay in side streets and away from houses and areas of commerce. Despite his best efforts, he could not avoid stumbling into the groups of qunari that swept through the city, gathering up people of importance and killing any Tevinter soldiers or mages. As soon as they saw his blue markings, the cry went up.

"Saarebas!"

He knew how to protest in qunlat, but it would do no good. The Arvaraad would lead the charge, followed by the Stens under his command. Fenris killed them, taking advantage of his lyrium whenever he could, ghosting around the hulking figures and striking from the blind spots where their horns obscured their vision. His sword was soon slick with gore, and his bare feet were coated with a layer of the mud that formed when dirt mixed with blood. As he tired, he focused less on attacking the soldiers and more on running past whenever possible. He was strong, and the magical dust embedded in his flesh enhanced his abilities beyond the scope of even the finest warriors, but not even he could cut through all of the qunari that stood between him and his escape. His breath came in ragged gasps as he ran, barely keeping hold of his sword. He was scattered with wounds both shallow and deep, sapping his strength and sending streams of blood down his legs and arms. The buildings he ran between were becoming smaller and smaller, he caught glimpses of the green jungle in the gaps between houses.

He forced his legs to move faster, pouring the last of his strength into the final sprint. There was nothing but open ground between the last of the houses and the cover of the trees. A qunari shout came from the left as he emerged from the city outskirts. His eyes flicked over to the noise, and he saw a knot of soldiers readying their javelins. Those that specialised in throwing spears had perfected their aim over many years. They would not miss. Fenris succumbed to the burning of his markings, allowing the energy to course through his whole body. He phased; his whole body blurring into blue smoke. The spears passed through his ghostly form, and he sped towards the jungle undergrowth unharmed, barely feeling his feet touch the ground. As he crashed through the first layer of trees and ferns, he stumbled over a root and fell forwards. For a moment he lay on the damp earth, struggling to pull air into his lungs. Each inhale sent spikes of pain through his chest, and his legs burned and cramped as they adjusted to sudden stillness.

He could hear the shouts of the warriors sent to follow him, they had already reached the first of the trees. He gritted his teeth and forced himself up onto his hands and knees. Snarling, he dug the point of his sword into the soft soil and used it as a brace to lift himself up to his feet. Turning towards the darkest part of the jungle, he forced his trembling legs to run through the thick ferns and undergrowth, until he could no longer hear the sounds of pursuit. Fenris slowed gradually, stumbling along until a foot caught on the uneven ground and he pitched forward once again. This time, he rolled over on to his back and closed his eyes, drawing in shallow breaths until he lost consciousness.

Awareness returned as he felt the point of a spear nudging his side.

"What's this, then?"

"Just kill it, Farah."

"He should be dead already, look at all the blood."

Fenris slowly opened his eyes. A small knot of humans surrounded him. Their faces were painted with black patterns, and they held bloody weapons. Their eyes widened in shock as he pushed himself up to a seated position.

"Not dead after all!"

"So, what's the story, elf?"

Fenris stared up at them without fear. He took a deep breath, and forced his dry mouth to form words.

"My Master left me behind."

"Your Master?"

"One of the magister's slaves, has to be."

"Well this is rich; wouldn't it be something to bring a Vint slave back to camp?"

"Assuming his Master didn't order him to kill us. Look at his sword."

"To hell with his sword, look at his tattoos. They wouldn't ink up just any slave like that."

"He can barely sit up, let alone hurt us. Those wounds need looking at."

"The chief will want to check him out. We should take him back."

"I still say we should just kill him."

"No one asked you, Tanner."

"Get up, elf."

Fenris obeyed automatically, getting to his feet and retrieving his sword. The fog warriors watched him warily. The man at the forefront lifted his axe.

"You got orders to kill us?"

"No."

"You want to come with us?"

"Do I… want to?"

"Yeah. You never wanted nothing before?"

"I…"

"Never mind, just come with us. Men, move out!"

The group gathered together and began to move away through the jungle with easy familiarity. One of the men handed Fenris a waterskin, and he drank greedily.

"Are you strong enough to walk? Our main camp isn't far, then we can take care of those cuts."

He nodded mutely.

"So, what do they call you, elf?"

"Fenris. I'm Fenris."

The axeman spat on the ground.

"Welcome to the Fog Warriors."


	5. Chapter 5

5.

"Excellent blade work back there, Wolf."

Fenris grinned at his friend. They had spent the afternoon hunting through the jungle for isolated Tal-Vashoth camps. The grey ones were ferocious in combat, but the fog warriors sent small, stealthy teams that specialised in ambush; taking advantage of their namesake fog. They would sneak as close as they dared to the circle of Tal-Vashoth tents and makeshift equipment before lighting the wick of the small pouches that they carried and launching them into the centre of the hunched grey forms. The ingredients reacted quickly when ignited, bursting into clouds of thick fog that swiftly enveloped the entire clearing. The Tal-Vashoth roared with rage and staggered blindly through the mist, sometimes swinging around their weapons and hurting each other more often than any of their attackers. Into this melee, the fog warriors inserted themselves. The guerrilla units mainly armed themselves with knives and bows, creeping through the cover of the fog and overwhelming single foes one at a time with strategic strikes to the throat and heart. Fenris differentiated himself from his fellows by leaping into the fray with his greatsword, dispatching the foes that were smart enough to group together and stand back to back, staring out into the fog and waiting for signs of movement. He would materialise in their midst and slice through arms and necks as if they offered no more resistance than the jungle ferns. The fog warriors came to admire his skill, and he found himself invited deeper into their circles of trust.

Farah, his closest friend among his unit, tossed her hair back and smiled slyly.

"No glowing this time?"

"I wanted to leave at least one for you."

They laughed together as they headed back to camp. The first time he had lost control of his markings, the warriors seemed set to have him killed. They had cautiously invited him along to a raid, seeing it as a chance to prove himself an ally. Fenris was eager to do so. The men and women he had met amongst the troupe had inspired him like nothing ever had. Free from a world of magisters and slaves, their way of life was almost alien to him. They laughed freely, brawled with their fists, drank clear spirits until they vomited and lost consciousness, and sang often and loudly. He watched them with envious eyes. The raid went smoothly. A Tevinter trading post had been set up near the edge of the jungle, supplying the route between Seheron city and Alam. The fog warriors swept in and cut through the Vints that guarded it, darting through the fog like wraiths. Fenris helped where he could, cutting down the soldiers that broke free of the mist. As the thick cover dissipated, the warriors walked through the battlefield, checking each dead body. As Fenris nudged a corpse with his foot, a strangled yell came from behind him and a blood-soaked Tevinter soldier charged towards him with sword upraised. Instinctively, he activated his markings and felt his entire body dematerialise. As he phased, the attacker's momentum carried him through Fenris' ghostly form, whereupon he resolidified and exploded the soldier's body from the inside out. He wiped the blood from his eyes only to reveal the fog warriors surrounding him, holding him in place with a dozen swords and spears. He dropped to his knees amid the pool of gore and limbs, ready to beg for forgiveness as he did for his master. The silence was broken by the captain of the unit bending over double to retch violently. Even Fenris was taken aback, he knew his reputation as the veteran of countless skirmishes, killer of Vints and Qunari alike. Farah was the first to start laughing, her giggles breaking through the tension and leading the other warriors into a chorus of jeers and whistles at the captain's expense. With such a sudden change in humour, the men turned to Fenris in awe rather than fear, questioning him about his abilities and even asking him to reach inside them to see whether they could feel his hand on their organs. By the time they had returned to camp, the captain had beaten three men to bloody pulps and had somewhat regained his dignity, and the warriors were hailing Fenris as a true fog warrior. Farah initiated the nicknaming, and by the time the campfire had burned to ashes, he was no longer referred to as "elf", instead they called him Wolf.

He and Farah reached their camp just before sunset. The men broke out the bottles of spirit they had uncovered in the Tal-Vashoth camp and began passing it amongst themselves as they sat around their fire.

"The chief can't miss what he never had!"

They laughed and chatted together, becoming louder and louder as the bottles emptied. Farah drank just as much as the men. She no longer felt the need to prove herself their equal, but would not be seen accomplishing any task with less commitment than they did. She swayed from side to side, laughing joyfully at the men's jokes, shaking her hair back and smiling coyly at Fenris whenever he spoke. One by one, the warriors either retreated to their tents or passed out in the dirt beside the fire. Fenris felt his eyes beginning to close, and the pleasant buzz of the alcohol did not entirely diminish the pain from his cuts and bruises. He got to his feet and left the circle. He didn't notice Farah's eyes following him out of the ring firelight.

He pulled off his armour, avoiding the sharp spikes that the blacksmith had added to the pauldrons, and lay his bare sword next to his sleeping mat before collapsing onto the soft material and closing his eyes. He was only asleep for moments before being stirred by the sound of footsteps. A small twig was broken underfoot with a loud snap, and he reached out to grab the hilt of his sword.

"Don't go stabbing now, it's just me."

"Farah?"

"Johan snores like a cave bear. Mind if I sleep next to you?"

"Alright."

The moonlight was faint, but he could see her outline as she unrolled her mat next to his, closer than he would have preferred. He turned away as she undressed, although she seemed not to mind. He rolled onto his side, facing away from her, and closed his eyes again. Farah settled herself down and breathed softly and deeply for a time.

"Wolf?"

"Hmm?"

"Look at me."

He rolled onto his other side and felt the blood rush to his cheeks. She was naked. He sat up in surprise and tried to shuffle away.

"Farah, what…?"

"Shh!"

She sat up as well, revealing more of her body. Fenris averted his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, only to be silenced as Farah pressed her lips against his. He sat still for a moment, in shock. It felt... different. Pleasant, even. He found himself kissing her in return. She raised her hand and placed it onto his bare chest. The markings she touched flared with blue light and Fenris cried out in pain. She snatched her hand back as if burned, and he pushed her away with some force, scrabbling to his feet.

"What do you think you're playing at, Wolf?"

Farah glared at him, holding her hand against her chest. Fenris could feel the place where she had touched him. Each line inside the handprint burned with the echo of their creation, and the agony reverberated through his whole body. He was breathing as heavily as if he had run a mile, and fought with himself to prevent his markings from flaring up.

"Don't. Don't touch me."

His voice shook with anger and pain, and his hands trembled as he found himself longing to hurt her. Instead, he snatched his belongings off the ground and escaped into the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

"Wake up, elf! We're under attack!"

Fenris threw off his blankets as the explosion of sound bloomed around him. The Fog Warriors yelled between themselves, readying weapons and running towards the choke points around their forward camp. He could smell smoke in the air, tinged with the sharp scent of residual magic. He strapped on his armour as fast as he was able, picking up his sword and following his friends as they ran out to meet the attackers.

Sweeping his eyes over the field of battle, Fenris felt his breath catch in his throat. Tevinter soldiers. They had broken through the first lines of defence, leaving the bodies of their fellows impaled on the spikes that ringed the camp.

"Blasted Vints, how did they find us?"

Rushing forward to join the attack, Fenris loosed his sword from its scabbard; cutting through a soldier with the blade before lifting the sheath to block an incoming strike. Johan and Laurel converged on his location, the three of them spinning and striking together with familiar smoothness as they struggled to push back the onslaught. He saw Farah join the melee, using twin daggers like fangs to strike at the soldiers as she threw herself through the fray. The soldiers were armoured with the seal of the magisterium; marking them as members of the elite force devoted to the service of the magisters. They fought with far more skill than the bandits and Tal-Vashoth that Fenris had fought over the past months.

"Damn it Wolf, we could use some glowing right about now!"

Fenris withdrew his sword from the stomach of his last victim and inhaled deeply before drawing on the lyrium and illuminating his friends with the blue light of his markings.

Before he could phase into his ghostly form, a magical barrier sprang up between him and the advancing soldiers. Fenris and his fellow Fog Warriors were forced to stumble back from the strength of the wall of energy, clustering together and assuming defensive positions. The magically enhanced voice wafted lazily over the battlefield, making the warriors look around in alarm, and for Fenris' blood to freeze in his veins.

"How pleased I am to see you unharmed, my pet."

The light from his markings died away, and his friends shot confused glances at him before forming up into their defensive unit, holding their weapons ready. The Tevinters lowered their own blades and stood aside to make way for the magister who approached from between their ranks. Smoke drifted from the edges of his robes and his hair was slightly rumpled from the effort of battle, but Danarius' face was calm as his eyes found his slave.

"Come along now, I grow weary of these savages."

Fenris felt his sword drop from his limp hand. Farah took a step forward, raising her bloody knives as she faced down the mage.

"Don't know who you think you are, Vint, but you've got another thing coming if you think you can take one of ours!"

The other Fog Warriors roared in agreement, tightening their formation to keep Fenris at their centre. He felt his heart swell as he looked at them. They wouldn't let his master take him. Even Farah, who he had hurt so much. She stood at the head of the group, shielding him from the mage.

Danarius frowned. His hand lifted in his tell-tale fashion, and Fenris cried out in fear.

"No!"

Not fast enough. Farah had no mages and no magic to shield her. Danarius ripped apart her skin and the blood began streaming from her veins. She screamed, the piercing cry all too quickly cut off as her body collapsed to the ground. Her blood flew through the air to form a crimson sphere around the magister. His eyes shone with delight as the power infused him.

The warriors roared with anger and sprang forward. Danarius raised his arms, and the swirling streams of blood vanished. In the same moment, the warriors' muscles were locked mid-stride, held firmly in place. He lowered his hands, and they were forced to their knees. A few among them fought, grunting and trying to wriggle their muscles free of the mage's control. Their struggles were in vain. The magister held them firm.

Fenris seized his sword from the dirt where it lay, anger pulsing through his veins. The heat of the lyrium began to surge through him, but before he could act on his fury he felt the familiar tug of blood magic working upon his limbs. He was forced to walk forward; muscles moving against his will to bring him, step by step, to his master. Despite the smooth veneer of his face, Fenris could see the lines of concentration on his brow, and the drops of sweat beading near his temples. Even with the power of Farah's blood bolstering his strength, the effort required to immobilise the dozen Ash Warriors as well as move Fenris was immeasurable. Danarius drew him closer until they stood mere inches apart. Keeping one hand in the tight claw of command that held the warriors, he drew up the other to take hold of Fenris' face. He moved it side to side, examining it carefully.

"My little Fenris, you couldn't think that I would have left you here. You were far too valuable."

His grip tightened.

"You should have waited near the coast for me. It's inexcusable that you ran so far. And now look. It took me altogether too much time to track you down through this accursed jungle."

He let go of Fenris and waved his hand. The magical hold vanished, and the sudden loss of pressure was so sudden that Fenris dropped down to one knee. He panted heavily, kneeling before the magister.

"You belong to me, Fenris. How is it that these savages presume to think that you are theirs?"

His voice dropped to a deadly whisper.

"What is it they called you? Wolf? Such arrogance. They spit in the face of my achievements."

Fenris closed his eyes tightly as the magic took control again, raising his chin to look up at his master.

"Look at me."

He opened his eyes. Danarius fixed him with a burning gaze.

"What is your name?"

The dream had to come to an end. Who was he to think he could be anything else.

"Fenris."

"And who am I?"

Inevitability.

"Master."

"Very good. Now stand up."

Fenris rose to his feet. The tug of magic had long since vanished.

"Kill them."

He was tired. So very tired. He felt a weight bearing down on him. The inevitability of it all pressed against his heart. His eyes prickled. He squeezed them closed. Better to see the darkness than to see the betrayal.

He moved automatically, watching it all as if the actions were someone else's. He looked on blankly as his arms moved and the blood began to flow. His heart lurched as his friends dropped to the ground. They were killed cleanly, as painlessly as possible. But the pain in their eyes did not come from the edge of his sword. Laurel wept as he approached, held in place, unable to resist. Her tears mixed with the blood that coated his blade. Johan simply stared, eyes piercing through the walls he tried to hold around himself.

Why? Why did they have to die?

The last body fell to the ground.

Fenris exhaled shakily. The air was misted with blood, he could taste it on his tongue. Salt and fear. Betrayal. He looked down at the corpses of his friends, looking into the sightless eyes that he had been unable to meet in life.

"How very tedious."

Danarius brushed some ash from the sleeve of his robes.

"Now we must be on our way. Come along, pet."

Fenris' hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. Heat blossomed in his chest and seeped through the rest of his body. Anger. Rage. This was not inevitable. He could have stopped this. He didn't need to obey. He saw Farah's smile in his mind. Heard Johan's laugh. He had the right to be free. The fire in his chest burst out of him as an explosion of power. He roared in anger and pain, and the blue energy of his markings swirled around him like tongues of flame. The magister and his soldiers were thrown backwards.

Fenris phased into a lyrium ghost, sweeping over the bodies of friend and foe before disappearing into the jungle. His feet barely touched the ground as he ran. Away, away. He would no longer be chained. He would run to the ends of the earth to escape the bonds. He would no longer serve any magister. He would be a slave no longer. He would be free.


End file.
